Good Evening, Doctor Quinzel
by Xanagar
Summary: An interpretation of Dr. Harleen Quinzel's first psychological encounter with the Clown Prince of Crime.


**Title: **Good Evening, Doctor Quinzel

**Author: **Xanagar

**Part: **One-Shot

**Rating: **M

**Genre: **Drama

**Series: **Batman

**Disclaimer: **I do not own any part of _Batman_, nor did I gain any profit from producing this fan fiction; it was created for entertainment purposes only.

--

**Author's Note: **Let me start by saying that with the exception of _The Long Halloween _and _Year One_, I am not an avid comic-reader. However, I've always been a huge fan of Batman, and after viewing Nolan's new _The Dark Knight_ for the second time, I decided to take a chance and come up with my own interpretation of Dr. Harleen Quinzel's first encounter with the Clown Prince of Crime. Their relationship is an enigmatic one, isn't it? It's because of this that I've tried to delve deeper into the psychological aspect of their meeting, and focus less on whether or not the whole thing is considered 'canon' - in the end, it's all fan fiction, and for the sake of entertainment, so please enjoy it.

--

As she made her way down the seemingly foreign corridors, she wondered if everything had become smaller. The ceiling seemed to be lower than usual; the walls appeared to be caving in, as if they could devour her at any minute. A strong, rotten smell plastered itself to the atmosphere, creating the illusion of walking down the throat of a dead carcass. Everything was quiet. Around her, people stared - silently, she reminded herself that they _were_ still people, regardless of their histories, however gruesome they might be.

An older gentleman walked in front of her, leading her through sharp hallways and crooked corners, edging past the many cells (she thought to herself, "cages", but criticized herself for doing so) that contained what regulars at Arkham had infamously dubbed the Rouges Gallery. Although she had been advised many times to avoid becoming preoccupied with such a category of beings, she couldn't hide her fascination. Her eyes shifted almost uncontrollably as she passed them; there was the Man Divided, the Master of Fear, the Lady of the Flora, the Inquisitor. They were all legends in her eyes, protagonists in an epic that no longer seemed so distant from reality. Her guide continued to lead her through the gallery, through the dark, decrepit corridors, deeper and deeper into this stronghold for the corrupted.

Corrupted. That was the word they used, the term she had been taught in her studies. People like this, people so forlorn, yet so incredibly powerful, even behind supposedly protective walls of glass. She wondered what they could possibly be thinking right now - what could be going through their minds at this very moment? Were they still capable of feeling emotions? Did they understand sadness, or even love? A barrage of questions bounced off her consciousness and seemed to fade into the backdrop as she traversed past these specters of paradox. Then, everything began to darken; the walls that had once closed in were now staggeringly close to crushing her, she was sure. The lights that did exist in this area were barely alive, and only managed to illuminate portions of the stone ceiling, its many cracks and flaws. Everything became suddenly cold. An inescapable horror announced itself.

She stopped at one cell separate from the rest. It was a monument to the others, almost completely shrouded in darkness on the inside, guarded by two abnormally tall men lathered in bulletproof uniforms. They appeared so sullen and drained, almost frightened, as if being given the duty to guard whatever existed in the cell behind them was some kind of inconceivable punishment. She watched as both guards acknowledged the older man, who turned to face her.

"Are you ready?" he asked her.

Silently, she cursed him. Of course she was ready - had she not gone through enough to secure a job here, had she not worked harder than most? Being asked such an unnecessary question made her feel inexperienced, like a child entering grade school for the first time. She nodded, allowed him to stare at her momentarily (could that have been pity in his eyes?) before turning back to the guards.

"Very well then," he muttered under his breath. For a moment, she believed she heard apprehension in his voice. "We're ready now."

Both men nodded to one another; one of them moved out of sight, and into a nearby room. There was a moment of intolerable impatience, followed by what could vaguely be thought of as light, scraping noises coming from inside the cell. The older man stepped back, indicating for her to take her place before the large glass wall.

"Dr. Quinzel," the older man began, "here is your patient."

--

The room exploded in a multitude of light. Suddenly, everything became illuminated. Fluorescent lights snapped on from all around, managing to reflect off of the eerily metallic walls behind the glass in front of her. At first, her eyes had to adjust to the sudden brightness. Then, she found herself sober enough to look forward. The surroundings were slim: a thin, haggard-looking bed was positioned in a far corner; there was a small white table in another corner, containing nothing but a gaunt plate of food that looked as if it hadn't been touched for days; and in the center of the room, weighted down by a man dressed in elaborate shades of purple and green, was a chair.

There, in a few short moments of intense quietness, Dr. Harleen Quinzel stared face-to-face with her new patient.

She wasn't scared; no, fear couldn't possibly be what was overcoming her. It was something else, something deeper than fascination itself. The man sitting in the chair was a spectacle - his hair was an untidy mess of black that appeared to contain small hints of a darker green; his face was deathly white, and was only personified by the dark rings around his shrewd eyes; his hands seemed to hold onto the chair with an air of nonchalance as he rocked steadily back and forth, creating the effect of razors against tarnished rust; his lips carried a deafening shade of ruby, his mouth had been carved into an irreversible smile. He glared at her as a predator would before claiming a piece of raw meat.

"If you would, doctor," uttered the gentlemen guide, opening a side door and beckoning her into the cell. She followed obediently.

The room smelt odd; as if it contained some kind of dark, unfathomable secret within its walls. The doctor eyed her patient cautiously, waited for a response. She received nothing, and therefore took her place in a chair opposite him. Quietly, she went over the usual agenda in her head. Introductions come first; his life story could wait - work before pleasure, after all.

She breathed, sucked in a lungful of unnatural air, said, "Hello. My name is Dr. Harleen Quinzel."

The man blinked once, twice, proceeded to smack his lips unnecessarily. In a mocking tone, he replied, "Good evening, Doc'."

"I trust you've been informed of my visit?" She hoped for a response, but none came. "I imagine we'll be seeing a lot of each other from now on, so I think it's only appropriate if we begin with introductions. Won't you tell me your name?"

Imperiously, he looked over towards the guards that had returned to their post. He leaned in a bit closer, whispered so that only the two of them could hear. "Promise not to _tell_?"

Dr. Quinzel sat frozen; was he teasing her now? She was a professional, had worked and worked to achieve the level of success she had obtained. Did he really think he was going to get to her with silly childish antics such as these? However, she couldn't lie to herself. There was something intriguing in his voice, something reflective and achingly trustworthy.

He leaned even closer now. His voice dropped an octave. "I'm a messenger."

"I was actually referring to the name on your birth certificate, but no matter. Whether or not I know your name is not important. I'm here to help you, to better understand you-"

She had planned on continuing, but was stopped abruptly when he began to laugh. It was a shocking laugh, both maniacal and elaborate in its construction. She made to ask what could possibly be so funny before he muttered to her, "Oh, you're one of _those_ doctors."

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"Well," he said, leaning back in his chair, stifling his steady giggles, "you see, it's all relative, isn't it? I've come across my share of so-called 'doctors' since being cooped up in this pen, and they all want the same information. 'Where were you born?', 'Were you beaten as a child?', oh, and my personal favorite, 'What kind of relationship did you have with your father?'. My _father_. To think these people would be so meddlesome!"

He continued to snicker, but not to anyone in particularly. It was as if he were in a private bubble that only he could see, consisting of all the audience he would ever need. Dr. Quinzel shook her head, readjusted her glasses with precision. "That's not my intention," she said. "I can assure you of that."

This time, he stood up; momentarily, her heart skipped a beat. "Oh, you can _assure_ me, can you?" He picked up his chair and brought it closer to the doctor, slamming it to the ground with a horrible metallic screech of protest. One of the guards edged closer to the entrance to the cell, ready to intervene if need be. But the doctor held a hand of objection, and the guard stood back vigilantly. Turning the chair around, the patient sat back down with a thud. He said, "Let me assure _you_ of something - you're different. Sure, you've got the same prim-and-proper-graduate-school look of self-fortitude, but there's something else there. You see, I have a niche; I can see a person's _true_ sides. And I can see that you're no _ordinary _doctor, Missus - what was it again?"

She swallowed, grabbed her own legs for proper support. "Quinzel," she replied. "Dr. Quinzel."

"Quinzel." He repeated the word to himself, quietly. "Quinzel. _Quinzel_. I like that - _Quin_zel. Sounds a lot like-"

"The harlequin," she said. "I've heard it before. Its origin dates back to the older English times; some would debate its Italian roots as well as its German ones. The harlequin was often depicted as a comic servant of sorts."

The patient widened his eyes, smiled humorously. "_And _she's got brains, too!"

Dr. Quinzel stirred irritably. This was getting nowhere; she had dealt with uncooperative patients before, but this was something else entirely. This man (briefly, she wondered if he even _was_ a man; he fitted the persona of some kind of demon) was confident, collected, completely unfazed. And as she sat underneath his astonishingly tormenting gaze, Dr. Quinzel felt more like a patient than she ever had before.

"Of course," the scarred man uttered, "I'm not poking fun at you - well, that's a lie. All I ever _do_ is poke _fun _at people." He paused, as if expecting her to applaud his comedic talent, or at the very least offer a simple smile. She sat silently, her hands tightened. Indicating indifference, he continued. "I just think you're - what's the phrase? _One of a kind_. You'll go far, doctor; _very_ far. That is, as long as you have the right leadership to guide you in the right _direction_." He punctured the last word; it bled possibility.

She wanted to say something, but what? What could she possibly say to someone so maniacal in appearance, yet so heavily layered in thought and mind? The lights of the cell seemed to speak to its inhabitants; the word _corrupted_ lingered throughout the room.

The doctor eyed her patient skeptically, looked upon the haphazard wounds at the corners of his mouth. Had he carved them himself? What had been his tool of choice - perhaps a razor? Or maybe just a simple knife? She sat closely to him, so close that she could see the remnants of bitter skin that had tried to heal, but to no avail. The scars were pieces of craftsmanship, masterpieces. They were horrendous; they were beautiful.

As if reading her mind, the patient said, "Wanna' know how I got em'?"

"Got what?" asked the doctor, trying to appear inconspicuous.

"I mean they don't _hurt_ anymore. They're old scars. But you know what? They still feel fresh sometimes; tempting, too. Sometimes I just want to take a razor and finish the job, slash this thing," he indicated his eroding grin, "to the edges. Now wouldn't that be something? The biggest smile you've ever _seen_."

He laughed again, and the doctor swore she could hear malice. She breathed again, as if to make sure she were still alive. She said, "They call you the Joker."

This made him cock his head curiously. "_They_?"

"It's your calling card, isn't it? You refer to yourself as 'the Joker'." She reached into her pocket, pulled out a small, slightly worn playing card. "You leave these at the scenes of your crimes, do you not? You use that name as a way of tearing people from their consciousness, as a way of making them afraid of anything and everything."

"Well when you put it _that_ way," he uttered, mocking offense.

The doctor ignored this. She held tightly onto the card. "While you were on the streets, you terrorized the citizens of Gotham. The sight of one of these could send someone over the edge. You also used these at times to mark your victims, if I recall. It's all theatrics, really. You wear that paint to scare people, to make them think we're all at war. And in return, the people fear you; they-"

She couldn't say _respected_. And yet, she didn't need to. It seemed as if he understood, regardless.

"You're so intuitive," he said. "But these people have a little something - _free will_. I can't control what they think, what they're afraid of. It's all in their _heads_, you see? Just because I decide to do this," he touched his face; traces of his milky-white make-up began to smear, "doesn't mean I'm trying to _scare_ anyone."

"But you called yourself a 'messenger'," Dr. Quinzel objected.

"Ah, but see, that's the thing. Who am I a messenger _for_?" He leaned closer now, licked his lips hungrily. "That's the question to ask, my dear."

She made to respond, but no words escaped her. He took this to his advantage. "You know, _I_ never even _liked_ the name." She looked up at him, allowed him to continue. "It's just - you know when something just _feels _right? When something just _fits_ into place? It's like that. The name just comes with the job."

"What you do wouldn't normally be considered a job, I'm afraid," the doctor said.

"Oh? But why let that stop me?" He ran a hand through his greasy hair, smiled knowingly. "You see, doc', we're entering a different world now - a world where things are no longer in black and white. Everything is in _color_. And no one can stop us from colliding with one another. Get it? That's the catch. If we want to move forward, we've got to endure the _collision_. Anarchy is the only solution, the only preparation. And you know what's even better?" She shook her head. "In this new world, 'normal' is no longer satisfactory. We need to be more than normal. We need to be _strange_; we need to be _landmarks_ in this new place."

She held her breath. "You're insane."

The man gasped, placed a dirty hand over his mouth. He looked at her as though she had uttered something blasphemously distasteful. "Now you're just hurting my feelings," he said.

And then he stopped. His eyes became concentrated, unmovable. They fixed themselves upon the doctor's face. He extended a hand towards her; without realizing it, she allowed him to graze her skin. He whispered, "Such a beautiful face. Pale. Mild. Soft." He took his finger and ran it along her cheek and past her lips, creating a single line that spread across her mouth. "Even _more_ beautiful."

This was too much. Everything she had worked tirelessly for was becoming a blur in her mind, a memory too far to firmly grasp. She didn't really want this, did she? She was a doctor, a _professional_. This was uncalled for, inappropriate. And yet, something inside of her screamed for more. All of her emotions became contradictions. She thought to herself, I'm drowning.

"Stop it," she said in an undertone.

He did not stop. "Why, I could make a little incision _here_, a little nip _there_-"

"_Stop_ it."

"Might take a little while to _heal_, but it's all worth it in the end, right? That's the price we pay to be _beautiful_-"

Her breathing quickened; her pulse pounded insufferably. She closed her eyes. "_Stop it_."

"And before you know it," he grunted, his voice growing louder, soaked thoroughly in madness and horrifying laughter, "you'll look _just like me_!"

"_Stop it_!"

The door behind her crashed open; the two burly guards ushered themselves in, screaming commands. Opening her eyes, she realized that she was now standing. She was drenched in sweat; she began to shake almost violently. Before her, the guards held the man back. He did not struggle to get free, but his laughter continued to echo throughout the cell - a loud, inexplicable wave of torment that grabbed hold of her insides and squeezed them tightly. She stepped back, looked upon him one last time, then ran out into the morose of the empty corridors. Behind her, a voice called to her, but as far as she could tell, not a soul followed her.

--

She didn't know how long she ran. Hours? Minutes? None of it mattered, anyway; it was all irrelevant to her. She was far away from the cell now, and yet she could still hear his laughter flooding in her ears, radiating through her thoughts. She held her head, and thought to succumb it to the stone floor as a way of removing the sound, but realized how crazy the idea sounded. She clutched her heart, breathed flourishes of the damp, sinister air around her.

And then, something clicked. Something happened, something even Dr. Quinzel, a doctor of psychology, knowledgeable of the most insane of people, did not understand. Her heart stopped beating so furiously, her intense sweating ceased, her eyes became clear and lucid. And she began to laugh.

They laughed in unison; the echo of his laughter mixed collectively with her own shrill sound, becoming a symphony of cacophony noises; together, they created an unnatural harmony.

Words began crisscrossing her line of vision. She began uttering something to herself. At first, it remained unknowable, a silent anthem. Then, it became louder, more diligent in its forcefulness.

She said, Harlequin.

His face embedded itself upon her consciousness. She thought of his eyes and the frightening way they appeared to see right through her; she remembered his skin, its abominable pallor; and she watched his mouth, ornamented in its profound battle scars, utter a sound to her. Then, there was only silence to comfort her.

Quinzel. _Quinzel_. _Quin_zel.

She made to laugh, but only managed to smile.

She said, Harley Quinn. The comic servant.


End file.
